Toilet Days

Yesterday was a "toilet day."

For-Now-Mommy's-Boy was sick, on the tail end of Grown-Up-Preschool-Girl being sick, and no one had slept the night before. When he wasn't asleep he was fussy, and when he wasn't awake he wasn't sleeping. She was overtired and bored and always hungry, and I was stretched thin. Brittle.

My knight-husband was working all day and traveling that night, and I was own my own. Lunch, dinner, toys, dishes, laundry, crying, rocking, crying, "Mommy, do you want to play with me?" I didn't.

I got frustrated when she wanted to help. I had zero compassion when he cried, sick. I was too busy to stop and read a book with her. I resented having to hold him, yet again. I had no patience, no grace.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I faintly heard the whisper: Can you find the joy in this? I couldn't. I didn't. All I could see was the toilet. All I could hear were the questions, the crying, the constant demanding of my attention, my energy. I had been drained, emptied, and I did not seek that filling-up-overflowing joy.

I'm on a quest to live discovering joy in the little things, the hard things - in cleaning toilets. But some days, I just don't find it. When faced with the question, I simply choose not to.

Maybe today I'll try again.